Easy
by ChekhovTheTroper
Summary: That's all I've ever been. Sex is easy, pain is easy, fighting is easy...love is tough, though.


**DISCLAIMER: ****_Silver Linings Playbook _****is not in my possession, but I have a very bitter gel I'm mixing into this bitch's Raisin Bran.**

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Easy. Isn't that the best way to describe me?

You know, something that I find strange about all of this is how I didn't deny it. I knew the shit that I was doing was wrong. I knew that going to the bar and taking a quick shot of both kinds would come back on me; but when I queried myself on what the best thing to do was, the only thought I came to was: _What the hell?_

There are nights where I remember every man's name, as well as every embarrassing kink they had. Whenever some hotshot threatens to send your skin through text or email, you just tell them that you'll post a picture of him bound up like cattle. That may not work for you, but it certainly did for me. Every damn name has a story. This guy named Rex could roar like a dinosaur, but when it came to the grand finale, you'd find better lovers in those who are fossilized. A guy named James couldn't hold on longer than forty seconds; this girl named Kathy―sweet girl, bad teeth―could sure bat for different teams, although the fact that someone mistook her for the Joe rather than the Jane was misleading.

I have nightmares because of how much I fucked, not because I regretted it, but because I couldn't help but imagine Tommy's face every time. Whenever I fall into a deep sleep and I imagine that another one is crawling on top of me, I immediately reel and scream like he was a perpetrator. I went all over the fucking map and the worst part about nightmares is you're forced to retrace your steps.

I had a particular kink for every season. In the winter, I began to test out my ability to dance by visiting whatever bar I could find. I didn't choose a specific type of guy, but all I really enjoyed was having the rattling feeling of being whole again―that was the first step into Personal Hell. In the spring, I didn't mind being bound up and gagged with something larger than the faulty premonitions. I didn't mind someone pouring wax on my back or letting the old, beaten trail take a detour. By then, I had promised myself to only cry in the shower as opposed to cry myself to sleep, because sometimes they stayed for more in the morning. In the summer, I was desperate for 1:30 Dirties rather than jumping the gun. I liked seeing some of the girls dance as opposed to wanting to join them. The fact that they were willing to believe that they had a chance as opposed to being honest with themselves amused me. Perhaps the humor came from my hypocrisy or my volatileness, but I'd choose both A and B, if I were you.

And in the fall, I lost my job. And that's when I met Pat.

I'll be honest with you, he is an asshole. I mean, I could feel something the minute we met, and I didn't know if I liked it or not, yet. There were days I wanted to literally destroy him for no reason other than I just wanted to. When I calmed down from it, all I wanted to do then was give him a good smack. Not only was he conceited, he was forty-one plus ten flavors of fucked-up. Maybe that's what drew me to him. He was forty-one, I was forty-two, but no matter the flavor-count, we were both crazy, and maybe being crazy together was the best thing.

The first time we made love was difficult. It's not that it was terrible. If anything, it was the best one I had in the longest time. It was the feeling of having someone inside and wanting to stay that I had to adjust to. He moved well, and I was able to make the right noises in order to keep things going longer; but when things began to quicken, and he started to grip at my arms with a more violent need…I was praying for it to be over soon, because the amount of pleasure I felt made me feel sick and I was close to fighting back again.

That same night, I dreamt about Tommy's death and how monumental it felt to hold the lingerie without finding a single loose thread. I was able to keep myself calling out, but Pat felt me shaking and ran his hands up and down my back. I didn't reply. I just kept crying and convulsing until my breathing became even and I was in tranquil blackness.

It's been almost a year since Pat and I got together, and I bet you'd think it's a powerhouse in the household. We prefer to leave it to his folks to keep the Energizer Bunny rolling, but we've had a few squabbles here and there. Most of the time, it was my fault though. Sometimes, I'd get caught up in a bad thought or I'd think of something blasphemous that I'd want to do to him, which would result in me being resentful about it. He's been surprisingly patient, though, as I've been patient with him when he's having one of his episodes. I've thoroughly convinced him to take medication, but whenever I see him tonguing the pill before we go to bed, I don't say anything.

Is there a way to describe how I feel about Pat? Sometimes, I feel angry because there's the lingering philosophy I don't deserve to be happy after all the shit I've done. I feel warm because when it's cold at night and we conjure up midnight mischief, there's an unusual sense of climatic consistency that I haven't experienced before. I feel sad because we were both jeopardized by our happiness, and maybe this entire relationship has been a clumsy rebound.

However, I can never shake the fear of feeling…_easy_.

That word is now a compliment, because I can't adopt anything else from the terminology of whoredom and expect it to carry anything resembling zip-a-dee-doo-dah. I want to shake this away, but I'm never gonna admit it because people will think that I hate myself. I never hate myself, but I really hate what I did. There's always a section of ichor in my chest, but not my heart. I know when I'm loving the right way. It's the admittance that worries me.

Pat loves me, and I have enough urge to say the same. It will take a while for me to say it with pulchritude, but I can say it with assurance of some kind. I guess you could say love is a bitch, or maybe love likes to wear the same goddamn football jersey to supper; but love is never easy, and that's the only tough thing I've come into contact with.

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**A/N: Very impromptu one-shot, but I'm really REALLY wanting to see ****_American Hustle_**** soon, and so I've been going on a David O. Russell spree while I wait for the movie to be released. I really liked watching J-Law in ****_SLP_****, and I wanted to write a one-shot based on her character. I will write a companion one-shot in Pat's POV, but it won't be until later.**

**I hope you enjoy this for now. :)**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**


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